


Black Sheep who Flock Together.

by stacksontrash



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 18:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13596168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stacksontrash/pseuds/stacksontrash
Summary: { After all, they’re both disgusting, marinated in dried streaks of other peoples’ blood which crumbles into the fabric of other peoples’ clothes. The cab of the truck swelters in a mixture of sweat, rust, and fresh sex.}





	Black Sheep who Flock Together.

Sunlight oscillates through a gap in the dirty floral sheets Troy rigged up to accommodate those times when the dawn is an unwanted prospect. It’s too damn hot to lie tangled up together, limbs contorted into something resembling a comfortable position upon the worn, box-springs of the cab. But they endure each other’s heat even as another day tumbles over the horizon. The risk of undressing, divesting of borrowed clothes, often a couple of sizes too big in Nick’s case, is one they’ve ignored too many times to count. To say nothing of several questionable locations Troy’s knowledge of human anatomy (and just how drenched with filthy intentions the eldest Clarke sibling can be), has been thoroughly expanded.

For a long while they just lie in silence, Troy’s long, deft fingers carding through wilted strands of dark hair recently hacked into a messy cut. One which suits the face which it frames oddly well. It’s been a few days since their last foray into the haze of chemical companionship, and Nick’s slowly descended. Details of an unforgiving world are ground right up against one grubby cheek as if he’d fallen for it’s tricks all over again. He smiles though, leans into that interminable heat when Troy presses a palm against his damp neck. Tells him in a whisper rendered coarse by sleep that his breath stinks. Iron and zombie brains.

After all, they’re both disgusting, marinated in dried streaks of other peoples’ blood which crumbles into the fabric of other peoples’ clothes. The cab of the truck swelters with a mixture of sweat, rust, and fresh sex. With a laboured groan, he twists his body just enough to crack the nearest window open a fraction. Beyond the road is an absent serpent, adorned with the husks of livestock without owners, withered juts of desert wood, and dirt. Miles and miles of dirt.

A thumb calloused by years of hard graft, tending the ranch, playing soldier boy for a father whose faith in him was never a solid construct to begin with, rubs a crusted streak of gore from Nick’s cheek. And there’s a strange kind of poetry to how closely entwined violence and affection are between them. Wordlessly, he surges forward, without a care for the vile taste a mouth turned stale by lack of amenities. They kiss for just as long, muddled up in each other until the cool hurt of the shrouded window is pressed up against bare skin.

It’s in these brief interludes where there’s no one around to judge how healthy their attachment to each other is, that it hits home like a shovel to the face. Only a soft hiss of pain against the shell of Nick’s ear, the sight of blood underneath his grubby fingernails, of Troy wincing as he rubs at the tiny crescents engraved upon his shoulder brings him back. As if the high never quite wore off, and this time it’s got so little to do with the usual means that it’s almost frightening.

Black sheep who’ve flocked together. Just the two of them.

Ephemeral. Reckless. Bitter.

He blames it on the come down, on whatever the fuck it is they’re lacing things with now. Troy’s hand cups the back of his head, his free arm tethered around a shaking back as the other man tilts his head back against the window. As if it can keep the weight of moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes at bay. Keep it locked away right along with the pit festering in his stomach which speaks of an awful fate.

“….you can sleep when you’re dead, eh?”

That much dredges a fractured laugh out from ribs that feel like they’re breaking right then and there. A silent vow comes in the form of hands, and fingertips, and that damn look in Troy’s eyes that says he’ll do all the terrible things Nick’s already done to protect him.

Lie. Cheat. Murder.

And he’ll do it all without regret.


End file.
